


Lights

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘It’ll be okay.’ Their foreheads touched; his voice was low and soft in his throat. ‘I’ll move the fucking earth to make it okay for you, Sansa—and for the kid, too. I love her bones. You know that.’Or: Two years ago, Arya turned up on Jon and Sansa’s doorstep and left after a single, soul-aching conversation. Now they are gathered back together for a Stark family Christmas, where old wounds and new secrets threaten to collide.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 71
Kudos: 175





	1. Apple

**Author's Note:**

> > I feel like everyone is probably very bored of my modern aus; but this little thing has taken so much of my love & care recently that here I am sharing it. All three chapters are already written. I think the subject matter is handled sensitively; but please be aware that there is sadness & anger here—just as there is hope & healing, too. 🎄🤍

For a moment, Sansa feels like she is back in the city. There are lights everywhere; little bulbs bump beneath her fingertips as her hand slides up along the railing. The heels of her boots make a dull, ringing sound against the terracotta-coloured tiles of the porch. Behind her, she hears Jon put the car-keys in his pocket. His hand touches briefly to her hip, a fleeting squeeze that she has never been more grateful to feel.

‘It’ll be okay,’ he says.

He says this about a lot of things. The tone he uses stays the same no matter how serious the subject: an offhand, burring assurance that life’ll work out. Most of the time he is right.

It is true to say that everything seems to have fallen into place for them lately. Their new flat in Kensington—free of damp, plant-cluttered, a fridge shiny enough to show their reflections in its door—his promotion to a more senior role at the firm, her latest book sitting pretty in the window display at Waterstones. Everything has spun out well enough; even the drive out here somehow swooped them away from the gridlock, the holiday jams.

‘We’re early,’ she says. ‘Maybe we should—’

‘—go in. Aye. Good idea.’

Jon taps a knuckle against the glass panel of the front-door before she can catch at his wrist, pull him—to the car, to London, anywhere but here—back. As if to spite her scowl, he knocks again for good measure.

‘God,’ she says. ‘Oh God.’

They wait on the threshold, bags and boxes balanced between them. The Christmas lights flash and flicker; a reed-woven reindeer glitters beside the doormat. Sansa lets her gaze wallow in the glow of it all. Her throat feels tight. It seems to tighten further when she swallows, then close up completely when a shadow glimpses against the glass.

‘It’ll be okay,’ he says again.

He gives her hip another nip with his fingertips. She grits her teeth into a smile. The shadow swells, spreads and splits into more shapes. A key rattles, voices bloom. Before the door has even opened, she is looking for her sister.

* * *

‘Arya?’

Her sister was sat on the steps leading up to the front-door of the flat. Her leather jacket—her favourite, worn and patched at the elbows—was damp from the rain. Her fingernails were painted black and bitten, the knuckles of her left hand white from gripping at one of the straps attached to the backpack leant against her side.

‘I didn’t know you were—’

But her sister shook her head. ‘Can I have a bath?’

‘A bath.’ Sansa stared for a moment, then stopped herself. ‘Of course you can. Come in.’

Arya kept her eyes downcast as they stepped back into the flat. It was cold out, late November, and the warmth of the radiator in the hallway brought a flush to Arya’s cheeks, set the fair skin rosy. Sansa crossed her arms over her chest, worried at her lip as her sister took off the faded jacket, the mud-splashed Doc Martens she’d saved for a whole summer to buy. The backpack slithered like a dead thing to the floor; neither of them made a move to catch it.

‘Lunchtime,’ said Sansa after a beat of silence. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I just—I’d just like to have a bath.’ Chipped black nails ate into her palms. ‘Please.’

‘Do you want me to run it for you?’

Her soft tone seemed to make Arya flinch. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, it’s fine.’ A low breath, a fleeting look through her lashes. ‘Thank you, though.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Sansa. Then— ‘It’ll be okay.’

* * *

It felt innate at the time, instinctive. Now Sansa wonders if she said it only because Jon says it so often that it has become second nature to her. Maybe it exists now as a projection of everything she wants to hear whenever something uncomfortable is unfolding, something unspoken. Maybe she said it to comfort herself, not her sister.

That level of thinking requires a degree of cynicism Sansa is not comfortable of believing she possesses, however. If anything, she has always been too hopeful, too willing to see the good in a situation, a person or a problem. Growing up she was always a touch idealistic: princes and ponies, straw spun to gold. Even now, this side to herself is something she cannot complain about—the stacked shelves bearing her moniker attest to the material worth of it, at least—but that still sometimes sits a little uneasily on her bones, as if it were a coat not a trait, something to be worn a while and then discarded, grown out of.

So, it was idealism that made her say it. Her penchant for problem-solving. A single look at Arya’s pale face did not tell exactly what that problem might be, but it didn’t matter. Sansa would figure out a way to manage the fallout from it; she would try her best to smooth the path for her sister. She tried, and she is still trying—and tonight she will try a little harder, for the sake of them all.

A weight dips in her hand. She looks up from the fireplace to find mulled wine being splashed into her glass. 

‘World all your own.’ Her father straightens the earthenware jug, smiles down at her. ‘Writing up another story?’

Sansa taps a fingertip to her temple. ‘Always.’

‘Bobby bought your latest,’ he says. ‘Cersei asked for it for Christmas, apparently.’

‘Not much of a grovelling present,’ she says lightly. ‘If that was his aim.’

The smile broadens. ‘When is it not?’

‘Those two.’ She rolls her eyes, smiles back. ‘Will they be here Boxing Day?’

Her father chats and she replies, amicably enough. There is a thread of tension working its way into a knot at her nape. He gestures something; Robb rejoins. When she turns her head to follow the conversation, the thread pulls tight along her spine. The glass jags between her fingers; the wine spins jewel-like across her skin.

Jon looks up from the other side of the room. Their eyes meet as she puts the back of her hand to her lips, lifts the wine-drops from the valleys between her knuckles. His eyes darken in that way all his own as he watches her, an odd mixture of care and hunger deepening them to slate. He tilts his head; she shakes her own. He nods, satisfied, and turns back to her sister.

The thread works itself a little looser.

Sansa smooths her hair back behind her ear, laughs brightly at whatever it is that Robb is saying.

* * *

The television looked too bright when Arya came into the room. Sansa went to switch it off; her sister put her hand to the knot of the towel at the middle of her chest, shook her head. Voices rose around them as the sofa sank, dipped beneath their weight.

‘Where’s Jon?’

Sansa looked across the cushion in her lap. ‘Still at work,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

‘Can I stay?’ Arya didn’t look at the screen or at Sansa; she stared at her hands in her lap, twisting at the towel. ‘Here. For a bit.’

‘Yes,’ said Sansa. ‘Okay.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Feel better for your bath?’

It felt like something their mother would say, but Arya barely bristled. She shrugged, played with the edge of the towel folded across her lap. Sansa looked at the black, bitten nails. She did not realise she was holding her breath till the bones in her chest began to strain against her skin.

‘Are you hungry?’ she said to break the silence.

‘You asked me that earlier.’

She tried to ignore the way her heartbeat quickened to hear the placidity to Arya’s voice, the cool despondency of it. Her sister seemed to have sunk into the sofa. It was like her bones had melted, like her shoulders were swallowing her neck. Her face was still damp from the steam in the bathroom. There were shadows beneath her eyes that looked like bruises. Sansa felt like crying suddenly.

‘When did you last eat?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Arya.

‘I’ll get you something,’ she whispered. ‘Something small.’

Arya’s shoulders shook a little then. They looked thin and white above the dark towel, like glass or porcelain: delicate, fragile, and so unlike Arya that it was hard to breathe. Someone gave a tinny laugh on the television; Arya spoke. She was whispering, too.

‘Something small,’ she said.

When she looked up from her lap, Sansa saw that there were tears in her eyes. They shone like jewels in the lamplight, trembled—then fell.

* * *

Sansa stands at the kitchen sink, watching it fill. The hot water stings her wrists. She turns off the tap, dabbles her fingertips to disperse the soapsuds. A glass slips beneath the surface, bobs back up a moment later. She watches it with a sort of idle fascination, startles a bit when a soft hand touches her forearm.

‘Leave that,’ her mother says. ‘We can do it later.’

The glass disappears again. ‘Oh, I don’t mind.’

‘Sansa.’

‘Catelyn?’

Her mother laughs at that, and the hand on her forearm turns a little gripping. Sansa steps back from the sink, dries her hands. Rosewater envelopes her. For a moment, she stands passively. Then she closes her eyes, squeezes back a hug. Behind her lids, needle-pricks threaten to bloom.

She clears her throat. ‘Dad went a bit mad with the lights this year.’

‘He’s excited to have you all home for Christmas.’ A smile against her shoulder. ‘I am, too. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ says Sansa. ‘A little while.’

‘Two years.’ Her mother’s voice is wistful. ‘But you’re back now—and so is Arya.’ Fingertips and rosewater, fiery hair rustling; the breath tangled low in her throat. ‘She hasn’t said a word to me since she got here, Sansa. Barely one to your father, either. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.’

Sansa blinks at the sink. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, Mum.’

‘At least Jon can still make her laugh,’ she whispers. ‘It’s so good to see her smile.’ A kiss burrowed to her cheek. ‘You did well with him, darling. He’s a gem.’

‘He’s alright, I suppose.’

They laugh and they hug, and neither of them lets go. The lights twinkle. Her eyes find the glass again: half-sunk, glimmering butter-yellow in the glow of half a thousand little bulbs. It bobs unsteadily on the surface, the water dark around it. She wants to reach out a hand, close her fingers around it like a life-ring.

* * *

Arya ate half an apple over the course of a National Geographic documentary. She picked at it in a dozen little bites, then set it aside with its skin shredded. The tee-shirt she was wearing looked like a sail strung from her bones; it was the smallest that Sansa could find.

They sat in silence mostly, their faces limned first by the fading light of the afternoon, then the muted glow of the television. Sansa made tea—two cups, one with an extra spoonful of sugar—and watched it turn cool in Arya’s hand. On the screen, some monkeys were flashing through the branches of a fig tree, stripping it clean of its fruit. 

‘Jon will be back soon,’ she said.

Arya put her thumbnail in her mouth. ‘Okay.’

‘We could get a takeaway tonight.’

‘Okay.’

Sansa looked at the figs on the screen, the apple on the table beside the sofa. It looked like something from an art gallery: red skin, soft centre, perfectly halved by delicate needle-sharp bites. Sansa stared at it until it turned grotesque, then got up and carried it to the kitchen bin.

The fridge in the old flat wasn’t shiny enough to show her reflection. She stared into it anyway, thought of words and phrases and reasons, then turned away. A lone clementine gleamed in the fruit bowl. The world was dark at the windows. It made her think of the sea, the crushing depths of it.

When Jon came back, she didn’t have to say anything. There was no need for a silent signal. She watched him as he floated a look at the leather jacket hanging up beside the front-door, the backpack leaning limply against the wall beneath it. He registered it—then moved on into the living room with the same smile on his face as he’d wear at Christmas or birthdays.

‘Hey, kid.’

And Arya smiled back—the first proper smile she’d given all afternoon—and Sansa thought that if her heart lifted any higher it would burst up from her throat.

* * *

Jon goes down on her later when they are meant to be unpacking. The bedroom is dark, the curtains half-drawn; even so, the glow of half a thousand little bulbs still permeates. Sansa glances down at Jon’s hand on her belly, the heavy width of it. She makes a sound low in her throat and the weight of his palm deepens. His skin turns red, gold in the alternating echoes of the Christmas lights.

Her head drops back into the piled quilts, the scattered throw. His mouth is warm and good, but she is somewhere else. He puts a little nip into the inside of her thigh; she thinks of that apple, the teeth-marks in its flesh. The sound in her throat changes, becomes something like a whimper.

‘Babe,’ he murmurs. ‘Stop.’

‘I’m trying.’

She arches her back as she whispers it. He runs his fingertips across her belly in acknowledgement, then hooks his hand over her hipbone. His thumb strokes against her skin there, very softly. The rhythm of his mouth changes a little. His tongue flattens, retreats. His lips glide closer together. Reflexively, she arches up higher. He makes sure she stays there with his hands, his kiss.

‘That’s better,’ he says.

A gasp catches at the back of her throat. ‘Stop talking.’

‘When you stop thinking.’

‘Jon,’ she breathes. ‘Oh, fuck.’

He boxes her in beneath his body when she is halfway down from floating. Her fingertips trace the dampness of his beard, his lips. He dips his head, and she feels a flutter low in her belly as his mouth finds her own. He tastes of wine, spices—of her. Their foreheads touch as he pulls back slowly, smiles down at the look in her eye.

‘She’s okay,’ he says. ‘Just relax.’

‘Mum was—’

Jon puts his thumb on her bottom lip. ‘Let her talk. She’s just worried.’ 

‘I know.’ Sansa circles his wrist, lets her thumb linger where his is stroking. ‘I’m worried, too.’

‘It’ll be okay,’ he says.

Their lips touch. The lights flicker outside the window, cast red-gold rainbows through the glass. He says it again, low and soft against the curve of her jawbone—and she believes him, wholly.

* * *


	2. Fig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Please forgive me for not yet replying to the lovely comments on the first chapter. I am not at my best health-wise at the moment; for now, rather pathetically, all my energy seems to be taken up in the tidying & posting. Rest assured that your words mean the world to me, that I will sing praises at you as soon as I am able. Thanks, loves. ❤️

Arya stayed in the flat until the week before Christmas. She slept a lot and ate too little. Her shoulders seemed to get thinner; the towel a splash of black ink against the milk-white sheen of her skin. She took a bath every day, sometimes two, and would stay in the cooling water for hours. Sansa watched it all from a distance, quietly.

‘I’m worried,’ she said in bed one night. ‘I’ve never known her so quiet.’

Jon shifted his face a little out of the curve of her neck. ‘Just give her time.’ His voice was warm, sleepy. ‘Whatever it is—she’ll tell us when she’s ready.’ He pressed a kiss beneath her ear. ‘What can I do to make you less worried?’

‘Keep making her smile.’

‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘Probably.’

Sansa smiled, felt the shape of his own against her skin. ‘Love you.’

‘Mm. Love you, too.’

Things felt easier when Jon was around. Arya would stay out of the bathroom; she’d laugh at his jokes. In the evenings, they would all sit at the little table in the kitchen. Arya would eat, and Sansa would feel a searing sort of happiness.

During the day she couldn’t write, so she’d clean. The Doc Martens stood beneath the coat-hooks, sparkling with polish. Arya looked at them, then at Sansa, and smiled. There was something so sweet about that smile. Something broken, too.

* * *

Sansa slips downstairs a little after Jon.

The fire is lit in the living room. Bran and Rickon are fighting over one of the Christmas tree chocolates. A cry goes up when Robb reaches between them and plucks the sweet from the pair of them. He eats it, glowers playfully when Jeyne slaps him lightly on the arm in admonishment.

‘Pig,’ says Rickon.

‘Prick,’ says Bran.

Sansa joins in the general laughter at that, steps across the carpet to sit beside Jon on the sofa. His arm comes around her easily, reflexively. He turns his head to brush laughing lips against her temple as she leans into him. She catches a hint of the mint toothpaste on his breath and smiles to herself.

‘Love’s young dream.’ Her father nods across at them, narrows his eyes affectionately. ‘Be wedding bells next.’

‘Or babies,’ says Robb.

Jon runs a thumb over the knot of tension in Sansa’s nape. ‘You and Jeyne first,’ he says on an easy lilt. ‘About time, too.’

More laughter, then the conversation flows onto something else. Sansa shifts a little on the sofa, flicks her gaze from the fireplace to the armchair opposite. Arya has her knees drawn up against her chest. Her nails are longer now, painted a blue so dark it is almost black. She holds her thumb to her lips but does not bite it, just runs her teeth along the very edge of it.

‘Relax,’ breathes Jon. ‘Just relax, babe. Please.’

She leans into his lips. ‘I am.’

‘Good.’

Her fingers flex and tighten. She wishes she had a glass to hold, a drink to sip. The mouthful of mulled wine earlier still clings to her tongue like a rebuke; she had lifted the drops from the back of her hand without even thinking. Jon weaves his fingers between her own now, and some of her worry dissipates.

When she glances up again, Arya is looking at her. The smile on her sister’s face stings like a memory: sweet, broken. She thinks of boots, the smell of black polish, bitten nails the same glossy shade. Her heartbeat echoes inside her throat.

Arya mouths something— _kitchen_ —and Sansa nods like it is a question, like she has a choice whether or not to answer it.

* * *

‘Got any wine?’

Sansa paused beneath the archway, gestured. ‘In the fridge.’

Arya slid the door open, nodding as she searched. The interior light turned the skin of her face a pale blue. She looked suddenly child-like: all skinny shoulders, shirt billowing like a sail. She looked so far away from seventeen that Sansa wanted to take the bottle of wine out of her hand, make her something warm instead. Then she turned away from the fridge, and her face was set with the familiar lines of an old, grim determination.

‘Drink with me?’ she said.

Sansa smiled at the jigging bottle. ‘Always.’

They sat at the little table they ate at in the evenings. Arya finished her glass and poured a second; Sansa sipped her wine delicately, slowly. Behind them, the fridge hummed. It was the only noise for a while. That, and the clink of the glasses. Then Arya cleared her throat, shifted in her chair.

‘I’ll be out of your hair soon,’ she said with a sniff.

Sansa frowned, put the wine down. ‘I thought you’d stay another week, travel with us to Mum and—’

‘I’m not going to Mum and Dad’s for Christmas.’

‘What?’

Arya looked into her glass. ‘I’m not going.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m just not,’ she said. ‘Okay?’

Sansa stared at her sister. She thought of the boots by the front-door, the backpack stowed away in the airing cupboard. She wondered, stupidly, if hiding her sister’s shoes would stop her from leaving.

‘Arya,’ she whispered. ‘You can talk to me.’

‘I don’t need to talk.’ The words were like a whiplash. ‘And you don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine—now.’ Her lower lip trembled; she bit at it fiercely. ‘I’m fine now, Sansa.’

‘And before?’ said Sansa. ‘What were you before?’ She reached out, snatched the wine glass from her sister’s fingers, and put her hand in them instead. ‘What happened, Arya?’

Jon would have been calmer, his movements smoother. An easy grace hung on him always like heavy water. He would have swooped in like a wave, pulled the glass from Arya’s hand slowly. He would have made a joke of it, made her smile. But Sansa didn’t have time for that. She was quicker, because she was frantic. Because she wanted to put her arms around her little sister and never see that sweet, broken smile again.

‘Talk to me,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

* * *

It feels colder in the kitchen. Sansa moves to stand in front of the Aga; a little of its warmth lingers, whispers at her skirt. The flagstones seep through her tights to sting the soles of her feet. She knots her fingers together behind her back, leans into her wrists crossed against the lip of the range.

‘Those lights are doing my head in.’

Sansa smiles at that. ‘They are a bit much, to be fair.’

‘Everything is,’ says Arya. ‘I wish I hadn’t come.’

‘How have you been?’

Arya gives a little smile. It sits twisted on her face, then lifts away with her shrug. ‘Alright,’ she says. ‘I suppose.’

‘Good,’ says Sansa. ‘That’s good.’

They stand silently for a moment. There is a weight to the air that feels crushing, suffocating. Sansa lifts her wrists away from the Aga, folds her arms across her chest. Arya looks up, her face set in familiar lines.

‘Jon told me about your new flat.’

Sansa gives a small nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Dad won’t shut up about your new book.’

A tightness tickles her tongue, her throat. ‘Oh?’

‘Mum says you’re glowing.’ Arya makes a little face at that, a twist without a smile to soften its edges. ‘Life just happens for you, doesn’t it?’ Her teeth flash out, nip savagely at her bottom lip. ‘You don’t even have to work at it.’

‘That’s not true, Arya.’

But her sister has spun away, blue-tipped fingers pulling at cupboards. Glasses shake on the shelves. In the sink, the water blooms darkly. Sansa shifts from one sole to the other. The sting of the flagstones seems to have travelled up along the bones in her legs, found a home knotted in her belly. She fights the urge to put her hand on it.

‘Will you have a drink with me?’ asks Arya. ‘A proper drink.’

Her breath comes out tightly through her teeth. ‘I—’

‘Think there’s some vodka somewhere.’ Another cupboard-door crashes back; the bottles inside blush beneath the leer of the Christmas lights. ‘Or whiskey.’

‘I can’t, Arya.’

Slowly, her sister sinks down from her tiptoes. ‘You—why not?’

‘A detox,’ whispers Sansa. ‘Just a detox thing.’

‘You’re pregnant.’

Sansa flinches. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re pregnant—and I’m a fuck-up.’ Arya’s blue-tipped fingers close on a bottle, wrench it from the top shelf. ‘Cheers.’

The bottle slips, shatters. Glass explodes like stars across the flagstones. Sansa puts an arm up in front of her face; through the glints between her fingers, she sees that Arya is on her knees. Her arm drops to her side. She hears shards crunch beneath her shins as she dips to kneel beside her sister.

‘Come here,’ she hisses. ‘Shut up and come here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ gasps Arya. ‘Sansa, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. Shh—it’s okay.’

Sansa holds her little sister in her arms, broken pieces glittering like heavy water around them. The lights flash at the window. A storm is in the room, howling—a wolf, wounded and wailing. It takes a moment for Sansa to realise that she is sobbing, too.

* * *

‘I had a procedure.’

On the little table, their linked hands laid limply. Sansa tried not to tighten her grip, tried to be like Jon: smooth, calm. Her fingers twitched against Arya’s palm.

‘Okay,’ she said.

Arya gave one, tiny nod. ‘A medical procedure.’

‘Okay.’

She nodded again, and Sansa found that she mirrored the movement. They sat at the little table, their heads barely bobbing. Arya tightened her grip: on the wine glass, on Sansa’s fingers. Their thumbs touched, the pearl of one nail stroking smooth the bitten black of the other. Sansa counted her breaths, tried to focus on this one tiny, tender point of contact, and nothing else.

They sat like that for a while. The fridge hummed; something rushed by in the street outside. A siren wailed somewhere faraway. It sounded sharp, sterile. Arya lifted her head to listen to it. The grey of her eyes was rain-damp. When she closed them, tears shone jewel-like on the tips of her dark lashes—then slipped onto her cheeks.

‘It was a relief,’ she whispered. ‘It’s still a relief.’ Her eyes tightened; her lip trembled. ‘But… but I feel empty, too.’ She took a shuddering breath, turned her closed lids to the ceiling. ‘So fucking empty.’

Sansa felt salt on her skin, tasted tears at the corners of her mouth. ‘That’s okay.’ Her voice cracked. She coughed, wiped at her face with the back of her hand. ‘What you’re feeling—it’s okay.’

‘Is it?’

A broken sound left her throat. She sagged forward, put her hand on Arya’s elbow, her upper arm. ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes, Arya—of course it is.’ 

‘Don’t tell Mum.’

They looked at each other through a mist. Sansa blinked, furrowed her brow as she put her hand on her sister’s cheek. Her thumb skimmed the button nose, the soft skin stained pale blue by the fading light of the afternoon. She took a breath, and knew that the smile trembling on her lips was sweet as it was broken.

‘I won’t—I promise.’

The next morning, Arya was gone.

* * *

Sansa stares at the Doc Martens slouched in front of the backdoor, remembers their absence in the hallway of the old flat. It felt like a bruise that morning she woke to find them missing. The door to the airing cupboard was ajar, the towels rumpled on the top shelf where the backpack had rested. Arya shifts in her arms now; Sansa tucks her chin against the smooth, dark hair.

‘You just left,’ she says.

‘I had to.’

She shakes her head. ‘You could have stayed.’ Her voice slips lower, softer. ‘We wanted you to stay.’

‘I should’ve left some money for the water bill,’ whispers Arya and—somehow, raggedly—they laugh. ‘Did you really want me to stay?’

Sansa nips her laugh into a tear-stained smile. ‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t write the whole time I was there.’

‘We were too busy,’ says Sansa. ‘Watching documentaries. Ignoring each other.’

Arya huffs a sound like a laugh, a sigh. ‘I never said thank you.’

‘You didn’t need to,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t need to. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

They straighten up a little on the floor. Bits of glass pop and snap as they lean back against the pale-wood counters. At the window, the lights keep flickering. Gold washes through the kitchen; they are bathed in its glow.

Arya sniffs, gestures with a jut of her chin. ‘How big is it anyway?’

‘Not very big.’ Sansa puts a palm onto her belly, taps it with her thumb as she shrugs. ‘A fig, maybe.’

‘A fig?’

Sansa rolls her eyes. ‘It’s a thing. There’s a website and everything.’

‘Of course there is,’ says Arya. ‘Well. Hello, little fig.’

She puts her hand on the back of Sansa’s wrist, then dips briefly to touch the soft wool of her dress where her thumb sits idly stroking. Gold shifts to green. Voices swell from the living room; a door opens, shuts. Sansa skates a sigh through her teeth.

‘I haven’t told Mum yet.’

Arya looks up from their linked hands. ‘About the baby?’

‘Yes.’

‘About my—’

‘I would never,’ says Sansa. ‘I promised.’

Smooth, dark hair thumps softly against the counter. ‘I need to talk to Mum then, too.’

‘We could do it together.’ Sansa breathes through her nose, shivers. ‘If you’d like.’

‘Okay.’

The shiver settles on her shoulders, then lifts away. ‘I love you,’ she says. ‘You know that. Don’t you?’

‘I know.’ Arya shifts, sniffs. ‘Love you, too.’

* * *


	3. Clementine

Jon doesn’t fuss when he finds them. Sansa watches as he floats a look at the bits of broken glass on the flagstones, the pool of gold-tinged moonlight where the whiskey bottle exploded into stars. He registers it—then moves on into the kitchen with a quiet look on his face that matches the offhand, burring assurance of his tone.

‘I’ll get this,’ he says. ‘You two go on.’

The two of them go, quietly.

They find their mother sunk into a cup of cushions on the armchair beside the fireplace. She looks small and sad, her copper hair coming loose of the knot at her nape. When they come to stand in front of her, she looks up from the flames and they stare at each other in silence. She takes a breath that shudders first into a sob, and then settles to a shaky, tear-stained smile.

‘Mum,’ says Arya. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes. I’d like that very much.’

They take blankets out into the conservatory and they talk as half a thousand little bulbs shine on them through the panes of glass. There are jewels in Arya’s eyes, and in Sansa’s own.

She sits quietly, holds their hands, and thinks that no curse of the ideal would ever have let her imagine this moment. This one tiny, tender point of contact between three women who, until now, never really understood one another. Three women now bound by so much more than blood. Her family—a wolf pack, warm together even in the white winds of midwinter.

For a while, she thinks on it. Trust, the fragile bonds of it; the way it can bloom like a flower. The way she can feel it beating beneath the star-struck glass here, now.

Hours drift, and she is slowly drawn back to the present. They are still talking, teary-eyed and laughing and so oddly, tragically together that it brings a searing sort of happiness to look at them. Sansa presses a kiss to their temples, tells them that she loves them, and smiles as she hears it whispered back. Then she goes upstairs to find her home, her heart.

* * *

The test lay rigid on the lip of the sink, pale pink against the cool ceramic. Sansa closed her eyes; two thin lines swam behind her lids even so. She put her hand just below her navel, allowed herself the smallest of smiles. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the bath, and thought of Arya, the old flat. The smile faded.

Jon came home to her sunk up to her shoulders in foamy water that smelled of lavender, lemons. He rumbled a greeting, put his hand on the curve of her neck and leant down to kiss her cheek. Sansa felt his lips freeze at her hairline as he lifted his head, caught sight of what lay on the sink.

‘Babe,’ he said. ‘Is that—is that?’

She huffed a breathy laugh at the inflection of his words, the sudden tightness to his voice that she knew for excitement. ‘Mm-hm.’

‘This is—oh fuck it, come here.’

Water swelled, soaked into the fine wool of his work suit. Sansa shrieked; it slipped soft to a sigh when his fingers glided down from her cheek, her throat. He kissed her. She felt the shape of his smile when his thumb lingered on her nipple, made her moan. Her head tipped back against the edge of the bath.

‘Love,’ he whispered into her throat. ‘I’m so happy.’

‘Me too.’

Her hair was still damp when she put her cheek against his chest on the sofa later. He didn’t complain, just brushed his fingers through it idly. Snow-capped trees bloomed on the screen; someone was talking about bison, wolves. Even with the warmth of his body pressed into each curve of her own, Sansa shivered.

‘Tell me.’

A waterfall thundered into an icy pool as he spoke, and Sansa’s voice burst up from her throat a heartbeat later.

‘What if she hates me for it?’ she said. ‘What if it breaks her? A baby—after everything she’s been through.’ She turned her face into Jon’s tee-shirt. ‘I don’t think I did enough, Jon. I just let her leave. I just let her—’

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey, hey. Look at me.’

Slowly, she lifted her face from his chest. He settled a hand at her nape, keeping her level as his right thumb stroked a sleek strand of copper back from her cheek. She looked up into his eyes, the rain-damp slate of them, and her breathing slowed inside her body.

‘You didn’t let her do anything,’ he murmured. ‘She was seventeen. You did all you could—and you’re still doing it two years later. We both are.’ His thumb strayed to her lip, her chin. ‘It’ll be okay.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘You keep saying that. But how can I believe it, Jon? This is different, this is—’

‘Have I ever lied to you?’ His grip tightened, grounded her. ‘Ever?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, you never would.’

‘Then believe me,’ he said. ‘It’ll be okay.’ His lips dipped to catch the breath from her own. Their foreheads touched, leant together, and his voice was low and soft in his throat. ‘I’ll move the fucking earth to make it okay for you, for our little love—and for the kid, too. I love her bones. You know that.’

Sansa smiled, closed her eyes as her fingertips mapped the tremble at his temples. Her thumbs smoothed across his cheeks. Jon moved to find her lips again, and the sigh he made clicked against her teeth: something ragged, wild as the river turning the screen to silver with its sound.

‘I know it,’ she whispered. ‘I know, love.’

* * *

He is sitting up in bed waiting for her. His eyes are wine-dark, and the charcoal tee-shirt he is wearing looks so soft she wants to press her face against it. She stands at the foot of the bed, puts her palms against her cheeks and flares her eyes at him. They smile at each other. She lifts to her tiptoes, sinks back onto her soles.

‘Hi,’ she says softly.

The smile gathers like a rosebud on his lips. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ she says again. Then— ‘Oh God. I want to kiss you.’

Jon laughs. ‘Come and kiss me, then.’

‘Okay.’

Sansa tastes mint, something citrusy. His hands slide down her sides as she rolls his bottom lip, then opens her mouth for him again. He hooks in behind her knees, pulls her gently to sit down on his thighs. Her fingers find the softness of his tee-shirt, the smooth skin beneath it.

‘Not so fast,’ he murmurs. ‘I need to do a damage report.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘You didn’t fuss earlier.’

‘I couldn’t fuss earlier.’ He catches her hands. ‘Now, come here. Let me look.’

There is no point in putting in a bit of faux-resistance. Her body melts beneath the warmth of his palms, and she wants nothing more than to be on her back for him.

He finds a single shard for all his searching: a tiny bit of glass embedded in a snag in her tights just behind her left knee. He pulls the fabric free from her feet, then slides his fingertips up along her bare thighs, the bloom of her hips.

When he is inside her, it feels so good that she forgets to breathe for a moment. She says his name and it wisps out of her like something shaken in a storm. He moves a little deeper. A frown furrows her brow. She feels his mouth trace against the taut lines, thinks of how warm and good it is. She shifts, moans his name again. Feels his smile.

‘Just like that,’ he says as he kisses a soft path from her temple to her lips. ‘Mm. Just like that, love.’

Afterward, she stares into the bathroom mirror as she washes her hands. There is a glow on her skin even away from the alternating echoes of the Christmas lights. There is a lightness to the line of her jaw. There is a lightness to the curve of the smile lingering on her lips, too.

Sansa goes back to bed, and they share the last half of the clementine Jon left sitting on the bedside table when she first leant in to kiss him.

* * *

Dusk fell as they drove away from London. An orange bloom settled across the tarmac of the motorway; but the words crooned from the radio were all white, blue.

They were half a mile out from their exit when Sansa made a quiet noise of despair. She put her hand to her forehead and turned to rake a glare at the presents piled on the backseat—the neat, smooth rectangle that bore a silver ribbon and her sister’s name.

‘What was I thinking?’ she said. ‘I can’t give her that for Christmas.’

Jon checked the rear-view mirror, slid his hand to the indicator. ‘Babe—’

‘She doesn’t even read that much.’ Her thumbnail found its way to her lip, made a dent in it. ‘She’ll think it’s just me showing off.’

‘Tell me what the book is about.’

‘You know what it’s about,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve been going on about it for months.’

‘Tell me again.’

The car swept into the slow lane. On a gentle rise at the side of the road, a sign flashed their exit. A few bare trees beckoned as the drone of the motorway filtered away behind them. The sky was orange still, a tiny dot of a sun gleaming through the knots of a few distant hills. Something settled in the air. It felt softer, somehow.

‘It’s about love,’ said Sansa. ‘The unspoken kind of love.’ She took a breath that shivered. ‘The love that just exists.’

Jon nodded, made a noise low in his throat. ‘In spite of everything?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Everything. Anything.’

They drove toward the hills as the sun slipped further and further into the shadows. The orange glow lingered. A handful of stars peppered the very edges of the sky. Sansa gazed at them, and the taut lines of her body softened back into the seat.

‘As different as the sun and the moon,’ said Jon. ‘But I need you, as you need me.’ He rubbed a thumb against the steering-wheel. ‘Where did those words come from again?’

Sansa smiled, felt the creak of its shape between her ribs. ‘Just something Dad used to say when we were kids,’ she murmured. ‘I reworked it a bit for the dedication.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Arya will love your book, babe—even if she never reads beyond her own name.’

She looked across at him. ‘You think?’

‘I know.’

His hand found her own, and his touch warmed her skin like an ember, like the fiery sunset casting its colours all around them.

* * *

They hang stockings from the mantlepiece on Christmas Eve. A few are a little frayed, dog-eared by the years since her mother first made them. Jon and Jeyne’s are a bit newer, crisp and clean like candy-canes. Later, silhouetted against the flames, they all look much the same.

A film flickers in the background. The air smells of mulled wine and woodsmoke. There is a softness to it that Sansa didn’t realise she missed. Bran sets out a game of Cluedo; Robb cries blue murder at being cheated of his crown. Quietly, Rickon strips the Christmas tree of chocolates.

‘Dad,’ says Bran over Robb’s protests. ‘Will you please adjudicate?’

Sansa looks across at her father, the weathered lines of him, the steady comfort he almost always gives out. She thinks of him tiptoeing through the house later, sliding presents beneath the tree—the one that Arya will open: a neat, slim rectangle, her name shining beneath the silver ribbon. She thinks of Rickon’s face when he upends his stocking in the morning and finds a clementine lodged into its heel. She thinks of Jon’s lips, his smile.

‘Hey.’

She looks up as her sister slides onto the sofa next to her. ‘Hey.’

Arya dips her chin, arches an ink-dark brow. ‘How’s Figgy?’

‘Figgy’s fine,’ says Sansa. ‘She’s good.’

They look at each other. There is something in their eyes that is deeper than the easy indifference of their words. Her sister is smiling; the shape of it is more sweet than broken. Sansa smiles back, and thinks that there is no solving the problem, because there never was a problem that needed solving. There was just a path to smooth for her sister, a path that winds on its way even now—a path that Sansa will always be a part of, if that is what Arya wants. 

She doesn’t need to ask, doesn’t need to say anything at all. For a moment, Sansa sees the answer to that question in Arya’s eyes. Clear, jewel-like—the way it just exists in spite of everything, unspoken. Then they lean together on the sofa, laugh at the quiet chaos of life unfolding in front of them.

* * *

A little before midnight, she hears Jon pause along the upstairs hallway. The door to the bedroom is ajar. Sansa smooths her cheek against her pillow and feels tears prick her eyes as she hears the burr of his voice, the easy assurance of it.

‘You’re going to be the best auntie,’ he says quietly. ‘You know that?’

‘Yeah,’ says Arya. ‘I reckon I’ll be pretty rad.’

Jon laughs softly. ‘Night, kid.’

‘Night.’

When he comes into the bedroom, Sansa turns onto her back and looks at him. He shuts the door quietly behind him. She holds her arms out, and he wraps her up in warmth and words and woodsmoke.

His fingertips find her belly. Sansa rests her palm on his knuckles. Their lips touch. His kiss tells her that he loves her, every little bit of her—and she believes him, wholly.

Bells sound in the distance, a bloom of silver at the edges of the night. They lean back a little and smile at each other, their faces limned gold by the Christmas lights glowing through the glass like stars. Like a promise that everything will be alright.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> I think that is me done until the new year. I hope you have a gentle, restful December however you choose to spend or celebrate it. Please also enjoy the above, absolutely _stunning_ work of art made by Semperlitluv (@mariah-on-fire) for this little fic; you are the ultimate darling, & I appreciate you lots! Thank you so much for reading if you have done just that. I’ll see you soon, honeys. Take care. 🎄🤍 


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